


Wicked Games

by zoeburchard



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Dancing, Dancing in the Club, Jealousy, Lots of alcohol, M/M, Pining, Probably bad, Stupid Boys, boris and theo in love, sorry - Freeform, what is sobriety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:09:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27127691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoeburchard/pseuds/zoeburchard
Summary: Based on the song Wicked Games"What a wicked game you play, to make me feel this wayWhat a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you"Boris drags Theo to a couple of bars where there are experiences and Theo gets jealous. Wow, I made that sound really compelling didn't I?
Relationships: Theodore Decker & Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	Wicked Games

_What a wicked game you play, to make me feel this way._

The ceilings were low, a haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air like a visible stream of unspoken sentiment. The booths a deep, dark red that invited you to sit down, take off your jacket and wash away your worries with a good whiskey. Dimly lit and warmth, efficient bartenders and a soft hum of chatter defined the bar we should have never left. But this was his wicked game. He knew exactly how to get what he wanted, how to get me right where he wanted me. We started at the quiet bar with nothing to eat but mixed nuts. Food would only get in the way. This is where he got me good and drunk- laughing, falling over each other, suddenly outside on the sidewalk away from the welcoming warmth of the dark lounge.

The music hit me like a frying pan to the face. I preferred the quiet calmness of a neighborhood lounge (Boris knew this) to the wild party atmosphere of a club. But this was Boris— who, given the opportunity, could party at a club all night long and into the next day. So there we were. Loud, tasteless pop music, underage college students, sticky floors, and then there was us. Before I even knew it, Boris had another shot of vodka in my hand. Probably the fourth or fifth shot of the night? I had stopped counting after two. We clinked our shot glasses and drank.

Heat shot up through my arm straight to my lungs as Boris grabbed my hand and drug me, through a group of women celebrating a bachelorette party, straight to the center of the dance floor. I blamed the heat on the alcohol. I blamed a lot on the alcohol. But when he tried to hold my hands and dance, I shook him off, rolling my eyes.

“Boris,” I said with mild annoyance. He knew I hated dancing. But that wide grin crept across his face, that grin that told me _Potter, we’re having so much fun! One dance only!_ I shut my eyes, rubbed the space between my eyes and tried to relax. I let my arms flop down at my sides- very easy to do when drunk- and tried to sway to the music just enough to humor him. Attempting to ‘feel the music’ was a little out of my wheelhouse. My eyes stayed shut as the changing lightsacross my eyelids. A certain warmth had disappeared and suddenly I felt anxious, acutely aware of the crowd around me.

I opened my eyes. My heart hit the floor as I watched Boris, who had moved away from me, his arm wrapped tightly around the waist of a small blonde woman wearing a sash that said “Single at Sea”- part of the bachelorette party- swaying to the music, bodies pressed up against each other, her arms around his neck. All I could do was stare as she twisted her fingers up into his mess of curls. _Curls I used to bury my face in to fall asleep._ She giggled at something he said, the music too loud for me to catch any of their private conversation. I ignored the bubbling jealousy in my chest. _Probably just the alcohol._

I took his preoccupation as a sign to head back to the bar. Sliding onto a stool, I ordered a beer and watched the people. A group of girls bouncing up and down, hands in the air. A couple who looked like they might actually know how to properly swing dance actually dancing well in the corner. A greasy man flirting with the one female bartender. Every now and then the crowd would shift and I would see Boris and the woman dancing again. It was always like this out with him. His effortless charm attracted all kinds of people to him— it got me to set foot in this place, something I would never do on my own. It was hard to remember when you were seduced by his charisma that it wasn’t all for you, that every sly grin, every subtle touch, every cock of the head, and each time he grabbed my hand to drag me somewhere, that it wasn’t all for me, that he wasn’t all for me. He was a man of the world in the truest sense. He belonged to both everyone and to himself alone. My mind adopted his voice thinking _selfish not to share, eh?_

The blonde girl was lovely. About a head shorter than Boris, giggly, very drunk, low cut dress with a hem that barely hung below her ass. She leaned up and whispered something in his ear. I couldn’t watch anymore. Rolling my eyes, I spun around on the stool and chugged my beer, immediately requesting another. My thoughts drifted to that fateful day in Amsterdam.

My whole world had been on fire and I thought it was going to be the end. After what I did, after what we had lost— that perfect beautiful ray of light I had let fall into the wrong hands. But there he was. Like that first day we met in Vegas. Came out of nowhere and saved me from myself, from the world— saved the painting. Us sitting in the hotel room, me watching him eat breakfast, while he regaled me with the tale of how the painting had been saved and why he was handing me a bag of cash.

I looked back at the crowd just in time to see Boris kiss the blonde’s cheek. “Shot of vodka, please.” I said to the bartender, perhaps a little too loud and a little too angry. He kissed everyone. It was a cultural thing, right? I had no right to care what Boris did or with whom, but there I sat, caring far too much. I hated feeling this way, thinking about Boris all the time, wondering what he was doing, where he was and when I would see him again.

I sucked down the clear liquid as Boris approached me, leaning in to the bar, his chest pressed up against my side as he requested a shot as well. “You do not want to dance with me, Potter?” He feigned hurt, clutching his chest in mock pain.

The way he leaned against the bar, hip out, shirt unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest, sleeves rolled up- I was keenly aware of all the points where our bodies met, thigh touching thigh, chest leaning into my shoulder, fingers brushing up against my back— I’m not entirely sure I was breathing. I never dreamed in my whole life I would meet someone as interesting and strange and compelling as Boris. He had made the days worth living back in Vegas and even now, every time he showed up (rarely, but still more frequently than 8 years apart) it was like I didn’t need drugs and alcohol to get through the day anymore (it was just a happy accident that Boris always brought _something_ along with him).

After everything we’d been through I should have been able to tell him everything that was inside me. For fucks sake I thought I had lost him for good in Amsterdam when I didn’t hear from him for a week, trapped in my hotel while he was out god knows where doing god knows what. I didn’t want to fall in love with him. Love didn’t even seem to encompass what we had. The bond we cultivated as children was a bond of trauma, mutual need, the desire to feel cared for and care for something other than the past that haunted us. He was always better at caring for me than I was at caring for him.

“You seemed to find someone to dance with just fine without me,” my facial muscles betrayed me as I half glared sideways in his direction. He tilted his head and leaned in closer to me, stray curls falling across his forehead and into his eyes. I wanted to touch him but instead I sat there looking indignant. “She’s really pretty, Boris.”

“Ha! You’re jealous, Potter? I asked you to dance first, you sway and disappear. So what do I do? Find pretty girl! Cannot blame me for that.” He was mocking me, laughing at me. Then he took my chin in his free hand and lifted my face to meet his gaze. “No girl as pretty as you, Potter.” He slapped my cheek playfully and reached over to claim the vodka shot the bartender provided him. “To pretty girls and dancing!” Over his ridiculousness, I tossed cash down on the bar and walked out, pushing through the crowd to the door.

“Potter! Potter, wait, Jesus Christ!” He grabbed my arm when we were outside to get my attention, “You are like big baby tonight. What the fuck?”

I could feel the heat of his hand through my overcoat and all I could do was shut my eyes and try to breathe. “Boris, I’m just tired. I think I should head home.” His hand fell and my whole body felt cold. I opened my eyes.

“No. You can’t. Just one more!” Of fucking course. And he knew I wouldn’t say no. No one said no to Boris. I’m pretty sure it was impossible. He grabbed my hand and drug me down the street to a nondescript black door. The bouncer was a large, frightening man I wouldn’t want to run into alone at night. At the sight of Boris he lit up. _How did I not know this bar was here?_ I could swear I had been to every bar in New York City. “Joseph, how is family?”

“They are so well! We can’t thank you enough, Boris! An absolute life saver, you are,” the large man practically melted into a puddle in front of Boris who just smiled humbly in return. “There’s a $20 charge tonight, but for you and your friend, no problem!” He held the door open for us and Boris patted him on the back as he pulled me, stumbling, into the bar.

Everything felt like it was in slow motion. I looked down to where our hands were clasped tightly together, blue then pink then yellow. Without thinking about it, I squeezed his hand tighter. The lights were colorful and strobing, the music was decidedly better than the previous club, but far louder. As Boris lead me through the crowd I noticed lots and lots of men. Really attractive men. Some less clothed than others- dancing together, dancing on each other, holding hands, some even making out in the middle of the crowd.

The heat rose to my face so fast I thought I would be sick. I knew why I had never been here before. “Boris—“ it came out in a choked whisper and he never heard me over the thumping of the speakers. Pushing me down into a booth, he disappeared. The crop-top clad bartender leaned in close as Boris spoke to him. I was too dizzy to really concentrate too hard on their interaction, but I remember not liking it too terribly much. _Fuck._ Why did Boris bring me here?

When he returned he slammed an entire bottle of vodka on the table (full to the top, brand new, never been opened) and two shot glasses. “Drink and when you are ready, come dance.” He took a shot himself, playfully slapped my cheek like I was a child and strode off onto the dance floor.

I couldn’t help but stare as I watched him glide into the crowd, beginning to move his body to the beat. _Holy shit._ I drank. For the first time since Boris had come back into my life I really noticed how he had grown into himself. His limbs weren’t all lanky and awkward anymore and his body had filled out in all the right ways- lightly muscular arms, a thin but healthy looking face. And then to watch him move this body that was so new to me— completely unbearable. I took my glasses off and rubbed my eyes.

When I replaced the frames I stopped breathing. As if lit up by his very own spotlight, there he was among the crowd, his hands above his head, following the beat of the music with his hips. He was wearing black jeans that fell lower than I remembered on his hips and a black button down that appeared to be a little short as his midriff was visible with his arms in the air, his overcoat having been discarded on the seat next to me. The very picture of beauty, his curls sticking to the sweat on his forehead.

I drank. I didn’t see it coming, I didn’t want to watch, but I also couldn’t look away. Hands slid around his waist down to his hips. I stared at the fingers digging into his skin, fire burning deep in my stomach. I drew my eyes up Boris’ body to search for the face that belonged to these hands. A thin man with shiny black hair. I hated him immediately and I hated myself for that.

Boris dropped his arms to caress the man holding him from behind and they swayed in unison, bodies pressed far too tightly together. The hands moved up his chest making his shirt ride up further exposing the pale white expanse that was the skin of his stomach I knew never saw the sun. I drank, this time slamming the glass down. The man started kissing Boris’ neck in a way I had dreamed of since childhood. Wet, sloppy kisses, no doubt leaving little marks on the soft skin of his neck. His hand snaked under my best friend’s arm and up to his throat in what looked like a chokehold. Getting nervous, I moved to stand only to see him push Boris’ head back for better access to kiss down his neck. Boris’ mouth fell open as the stranger kissed down to his shoulder. Boris seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the attention as I watched his hand land on this man’s hand, pushing it up under his shirt all the while hips still swaying to the music. I felt an uncomfortable tightness in my slacks. Sitting bolt upright I tried to ignore it. _What is this game?_

I drank. Twisting out of the other man’s grasp on his neck, he turned his head, looking straight at me. Direct eye contact. His eyes were dark and full of desire. His lips curled in a mischievous manner, then turned his head back to his new friend, whispered something, and then their lips met. I banged my head on the table, took one more shot _I’m probably going to die of alcohol poisoning tonight_ whipped my coat off, tossing it on top of Boris’ coat and stomped onto the dance floor like a child in a temper.

“Excuse me,” neither of them looked at me, I adjusted my glasses awkwardly. The two men continued kissing sloppily, Boris holding this man’s, who was much younger than I had previously thought, cheek tenderly with his long, beautiful fingers. _Hands that should be touching me, hands I should be holding._ I stood awkwardly for a moment, unnoticed. So I did the only thing I thought made sense. I grabbed Boris (a little rougher than I intended) by his very bare waist, this _boy_ having completely unbuttoned his shirt, now falling off his shoulder, while they kissed. It was enough to make the other man back off and give Boris reason to look in my direction. I shot the boy a cold possessive look and he disappeared into the crowd.

My pelvis pressed tight against Boris and I snaked one arm up around his neck. “Now we’ll do things my way, alright Boris?” Boris smiled and laughed as he put his arms up in the air again to continue his rhythmic movements, now against me instead of some random man.

“You’ve come around, eh?” He pressed his chest up against mine, his hand on my neck pulling our faces close. The vodka breath hitting my face was the most wonderful thing I had experienced since entering this stupid fucking club. “You ready to dance, Potter?” I pushed our foreheads together in a movement he knew to mean _absolutely I am._

A mix of sweat and limbs blended us together into one being moving in unison at all the right moments. My hands slid all over his torso, touching every part of him I could, every part of him I had wanted to touch since we had reunited over a year ago. How was it that Boris always seemed to know me better than I knew myself? Was this his plan all along?

He grabbed my tie, continuing to move his hips with mine while he untied it, popping a few shirt buttons open in the process. Boris draped the tie over his own shoulders and took hold of my shirt. We locked eyes, his dark and piercing, filled with all the things we felt but never said. I recalled how, years ago, he had kissed me before I got into a taxi and left him, for what I feared might be, forever. Many nights I had dreamed of that kiss, replayed it in my mind in my waking hours and wondered what it meant to him and if it had meant anything at all.

While he seemed to gaze straight into my heart, through all the shit rattling around in my head, the room seemed to spin around us (which could have just been the vodka), his sweat soaked, bare chest pressed against my carefully starched and pressed button down, his hands holding on for dear life, one of my arms tight around his waist, the other playing into his hair as I leaned towards him pressing our lips together for the first time in 9 years. We kissed with such urgency one would have thought the world was ending in a matter of minutes. His long fingers reached up to caress my face as I traced his jaw with my thumb.

It could have been hours, it could have been seconds- I felt his breath, cold on my wet lips, as he whispered, “Наконец! _”_

_What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for tuning into another riveting episode of 'Zoe can't stop thinking about The Goldfinch'


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